Words of the Wizard

…I wrote this in response to prompt #6 at Writer’s Island, the prompt is “Unforgettable”



“The Wizard of Westwood”
John Wooden 1910-2010

Words of the Wizard

•

John Wooden has,
on this 4th day of June,
in the year 2010
left this mortal realm
after 99 years
of untiring service
impeccable wisdom
and great love

a man of balance
and spiritual depth
such as John
comes so seldom
it must be seriously considered
that this world
has lost
one of its special angels

and that the warmth
and the stability
of humankind
may in fact
suffer consequence

I shed not a tear
for John
he needs no pity
it is for the rest of us
that I heartily cry

the following
are the immortal words
of a great and profoundly humble man

gather close
and hear

•

a mentor is someone
who can give correction
without causing resentment

ability is a poor man’s wealth

adversity is the state
in which man
most easily becomes
acquainted with himself
being especially free of admirers then

be more concerned
with your character
than your reputation
because your character
is what you really are
while your reputation
is merely what others
think you are

be prepared
and be honest

it is amazing
how much can be accomplished
if no one cares
who gets the credit

although there is no progress
without change
not all change is progress

consider the rights of others
before your own feelings
and the feelings of others
before your own rights

do not let what you cannot do
interfere with what you can do

don’t measure yourself
by what you have accomplished
but by what you should have accomplished
with your ability

failure is not fatal
but failure to change
might be

ability may get you to the top
but it takes character
to keep you there

listen
if you want to be heard

never make excuses
your friends don’t need them
and your foes won’t believe them

failing to plan
is planning to fail

if you don’t have time
to do it right
when will you have time
to do it over

there is nothing stronger
than gentleness

the true test
of a man’s character
is what he does
when no one is watching

if you’re not making mistakes
then you’re not doing anything
I’m positive that a doer
makes mistakes

it isn’t what you do
but how you do it

it’s not so important
who starts the game
but who finishes it

don’t let yesterday
take up too much of today
make every day
your masterpiece

it’s the little details
that are vital
little things
make big things happen

it’s what you learn
after you know it all
that counts

players with fight
never lose a game
they just run out of time

material possessions
winning scores
and great reputations
are meaningless
in the eyes of the lord
because he knows
what we really are
and that is all that matters

never mistake activity
for achievement

success comes from knowing
that you did your best
to become the best
that you are capable
of becoming

success is never final
failure is never fatal
It’s courage that counts

success
is peace of mind
which is a direct result
of self-satisfaction
in knowing
you did your best
to become the best
you are capable
of becoming

talent is god given
be humble
fame is man-given
be grateful
conceit is self-given
be careful

the main ingredient
of stardom
is the rest of the team

the worst thing
about new books
is that they keep us
from reading the old ones

there are many things
that are essential
to arriving
at true peace of mind
and one of the most important
is faith
which cannot be acquired
without prayer

things turn out best
for the people
who make the best
of the way things turn out

what you are
as a person
is far more important
that what you are
as a basketball player

young people need models
not critics

you can’t let praise
or criticism
get to you
It’s a weakness
to get caught up
in either one

you can’t live
a perfect day
without doing something
for someone
who will never
be able
to repay you

• • •

words by: John Wooden 1910 – 2010
opening by: rob kistner © 2010

• To learn more about John, please click here

Eve’s Eyes

• In response to prompt #5 of the newly opened We Write Poems, this is a surrealistic poem I created using a technique of creative omission called erasure. I am generally not a fan of fashioning a poem to or from a form or device — but this was interesting. The original poem I “mined” was entitled “Pointed Roofs”, by Dorothy Miller Richardson. You might find it interesting to compare Dorothy’s piece with my finished piece…



Eve’s Eyes

•

plentiful
the long faces

the girls
numerous
brought the sense of misery

the girls
nervous
were part of the remuneration

the very first
eve
playing a melody

swollen
her fingers weak
unexpectedly stiffened
her trembling hands
dreadful

she stood
angry

stupid people
had made her play

her discomfiture forgotten
she simply poked the piano

almost unrecognizable
she played with burning eyes

thumping
and thumping again
she played afresh
laughed into the air
back to the wall
behind the piano

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

________________________________

…the painting above is entitled “HOMAGE for GILLES CARLE”, by: Estelle St-Pierre

Lupus Luna

 

Lupus Luna

~

wolf moon hangs heavy
in the damp night sky

I feel its powerful tug

bulbous moist pearl
rolling in a cold chromium fog

forging my steely urges
hardening my unspeakable needs

wet slivers of cloud
smear themselves across its face
irregular
dappling my perverse metamorphosis

translucent sacks of moonbeams
glide the blue black sky
breathing

the hoarse breath of the beast
festers a howl
rumbling deep in my throat

in the heavens
glassine billowing pillows
oozing
soaked with midnight

stars float and spark
glinting
dripping
shivering

as I shudder
in dread of this witching hour
engorged with unearthly power

frozen splintered crystal tips
diamond chips
pinprick rips in blackened space

piercing
white hot
my ungodly eyes
seared with bloodlust
probing
hunting

stars wink and wane
and glisten
shattered bits of silvered light
snapping here then not
behind the ghostly white vapor
that slithers through the firmament

I slink the midnight mists
eternally cursed
driven by a horrible hunger

the world
devoid of color
aglow in sterling grey
a negative of day

thick and chilled

filled with the sound
of stalking
after-dark things

abominations of nocturne
in this sorrowing hour
to lay bare your soul
in periled introspection

in grief of secrets

~ ~ ~

rob kistner © 2010

  • collage above entitled “Lupus Luna” by: rob kistner © 2010
  • Letters of Love

    …this is from my draft archives, in response to prompt #118 at One Single Impression

    Letters of Love

    •

    letter by letter
    word by word
    I reach out

    from fingertips flow feelings

    memories alive
    spirit full
    my heart pours forth
    warmed

    I share honest emotion
    barriers down
    longing for connection

    • • •

    rob kistner © 2001

    Book of Ardor

    • In response to the 2nd prompt on the newly opened We Write Poems, this piece was inspired by my listening to the 1974 vinyl record album entitled “Mysterious Traveler”, by Weather Report.


    Weather Report was one of the earliest and most influential Jazz-Rock groups. Keyboardist Joe Zawinul and saxophone player Wayne Shorter formed the group in 1971. Both originally members of the Miles Davis’ group, they were joined by the legendary bassist, ,Jaco Pastorius, making Weather Report a milestone group of modern music…

    _____________________________
    …here is my poem inspired by their music…

    Book of Ardor

    •

    eyes dark and deep as nile nocturne
    scorching as nubian sundance
    this blackthorn rose
    is the secreted passion

    the sultry jungle goddess
    inscribed in the book of ardor

    fired in molten scarlet
    woman forged of earthen bronze

    ablaze in the sensual dreams
    of writhing midnight

    she is smoke and flame
    the mysterious traveler

    • • •

    rob kistner © 2010

    ________________________________

    • The beautiful woman in the photo above is Jourdan Dunn

    The Key

    • In response to the 3rd prompt on the newly re-opened Writer’s Island, I offer a gothic tale…
    • I also offer this in response to prompt #116 at One Single Impression




    The Key

    •

    I must move quickly from this light
    that pools incrementally
    in this long
    pungent
    segmented hallway

    there is some safety in the shadows
    that linger tight
    to the arch walls

    so I bolt
    through the full moon’s glow
    that seeps silvered through the windows

    I press myself
    against the damp irregular surfaces
    that are the stacked-stone
    boundary breaks
    of this eerie chiseled passage

    I pause at each
    until I reach the last

    I halt

    sliding two fingers
    of my right hand
    into the small pocket of my waistcoat
    to confirm that it is still there
    I feel the cool brass
    of the oddly carved key

    relief seasons my trepidation

    nothing in my being
    wants this dire mission
    to which I am shackled

    but it is only my hand
    on the inscripted dagger
    gripped tightly in my left
    that can bring an end
    to my uncle’s unholy
    reign of horror

    I am the last surviving member
    of our cursed bloodline
    so the brutal deed
    falls to me

    creeping stealthily forward
    like a shade on the dank wall
    I move cautiously closer
    to the iron-laden
    dense wood door
    of his sleeping chamber

    my heart pounding
    my diaphram starved for breath
    I feel I may pass out

    but still I pursue
    the evil incarnate
    that lies
    locked away
    in undead repose

    suddenly
    a noise
    immediately behind me

    it echoes through these catacombs
    pierces my taut raw nerves
    and instantly paralyzes me

    trembling
    I turn

    no one there

    hushed
    I listen intently

    no other sounds
    save the blood
    pulsing as a roar
    in my ears

    I begin to move
    but again
    I hear it

    panicked
    I jerk my head around
    and see

    in this frozen moment
    my stressed mind deduces
    the source of the noise

    moisture
    collecting on the stone ceiling
    gathers overhead
    into sagging condensation

    it released
    as a weighty droplet
    splattering on the floor
    just behind me
    with a sharp startling slap

    I relax a bit
    enough to again draw
    tensioned breath

    several more labored
    careful steps
    and I place my hand
    gently on the wrought handle
    of the immense door

    transferring the lethal dagger
    to my quivering right hand
    I reach
    steadily as possible
    into my pocket
    and withdraw the strange key

    it is unnaturally heavy
    and seems to emanate
    an unearthly energy

    I clutch it firmly
    fearing if I lose my grip
    I will lose my nerve

    I guide the key
    into the slot
    of the ornate handle plate
    seating it fully

    slowly I begin to turn it

    I feel the resistance
    as the key’s teeth
    engage with the bolt
    and begin to grudgingly
    draw it from its secure well

    just before I have fully retracted it
    I pause
    my mind racing
    blood pressure soaring
    overcome by the magnitude
    of what I am about to do

    no turning back now
    this must be done
    and I must do it
    but I am terrified

    still I hesitate
    attempting to gain
    my much needed composure

    I slow my heartbeat
    steady my breathing
    steel my resolve
    and turn the key
    its final quarter inch

    the lock clicks
    the handle releases
    and the door unseats inwardly

    this is it
    fate has dealt the deck
    I am prisoner
    in this horrible game

    I swing the door open
    ever so gradually
    and step in
    toward my destiny…

    • • •

    rob kistner © 2010


    Oh Brother!

    Presented in response to the May 10th prompt from Big Tent Poetry, which suggested “be playful! Let the sound of the words carry the weight (of the poem)” — so here is my playful poem of sounds…

    ____________________________________

     

    Oh Brother!

    •

    ACHOO!
    exploded in the quiet room
    followed by a couple loud sniffs

    cover your mouth
    I blurted in a whisper
    before I bonk you on the noggin

    he crackled with disdain
    clicked the snap on his backpack open
    and with a clunk and a clatter
    surprisingly retrieved a tissue pack
    from the cluttered contents
    looking at me like I was cuckoo

    he flicked one out
    as a second fluttered to the floor

    I growled my disapproval

    he just giggled
    honked his hooter
    and hissed defiantly
    jangling the keys
    he had also pulled out

    I knocked them from his hand
    back into his backpack
    and mumbled at him to hush up
    and settle down

    he murmured something unintelligible
    rattling his pack shut
    and plopping it back on the floor

    I shushed him again
    and started to slowly sizzle

    suddenly I hear slurping
    as he is sucking a soda
    through a straw
    splashing the liquid
    over the ice
    as he swirls and shakes his paper cup

    I snap
    and shout
    shut up
    thumping my fists on my knees

    suddenly
    everyone is eyeing me

    I hear the lady next to me
    going tsk tsk
    like I’m the problem

    it was all I could do
    not to whip around in my seat
    and whack her

    yikes I thought
    enough is enough

    so I hopped to my feet
    zipped my coat
    grabbed him by the hand
    and zoomed us out of there
    into the car
    slamming the driver’s door
    and vrooooom

    sped us home

    never again I snorted
    never again will I take you
    little brother
    to the movies

    he just whipped on his iPod
    began humming to his tunes
    and ZAP…

    flipped me off

    • • •

    rob kistner © 2010

    ____________________________________

    photo from: Getty Images

    Blue Temple

    …response to prompt #14 from Magpie Tales



    The image of this plate above, this week’s prompt at Magpie Tales, immediately put me in mind of serenity. Also, while the plate may be Chinese in origin, it also made me think of the ancient Japanese poetic form called tanka.

    Tanka are 31-syllable poems that have been the most popular form of poetry in Japan for at least 1300 years. As a form of poetry, tanka is older than haiku, and tanka poems are evocative.

    During Japan’s Heian period (794-1185 A.D.) it was considered essential for a woman or man of culture to be able to both compose beautiful poetry and to choose the most aesthetically pleasing and appropriate paper, ink, and symbolic attachment—such as a branch, a flower—to go with it.

    Tanka have changed and evolved over the centuries beyond the traditional expressions of passion and heartache, and styles have changed to include modern language — but the form of five syllabic units containing a total of 31 syllables has remained the same.

    Each line of a tanka consists of one image or idea. One does not seek to “wrap” lines in tanka, though in the best tanka, the five lines flow seamlessly into one thought or feeling.

    This particular visual prompt also sparked my recall of a simple, but wonderful piece of art I discovered a few years back, entitled “Blue Temple” by Vorffy.

    So here I present my tanka entitled “Blue Temple”, including for your pleasure, the Vorfffy art piece of the same name.

    _____________________________




    Blue Temple

    •

    birds in the blue sky

    sampans on the blue waters

    blue temple gateways

    serenity is sacred

    approach with your heart open

    • • •

    rob kistner © 2010


    Why I Write

    In response to prompt #87 at Poetic Asides




    Why I Write

    •

    I write as proof that I exist
    so as not to lose my mind

    to prevent my sorrow
    from choking the life
    from my soul

    to know what I really think
    to ride the currents of my joy
    and laughter

    to track my growth
    share what I have experienced
    shed light on my ignorance
    to leave my trace

    expose my vulnerability
    in hopes others won’t rebuke
    banish
    or hurt me
    but rather see me worthy of mercy
    of love
    to see me not so unlike themselves
    and have pity

    because there is an urge
    to break the mental silence
    to make a din
    create a literate clatter
    to be certain I am not ignored
    forgotten
    or misunderstood

    because I am sad
    I am crazy
    I am odd
    I am insecure
    I am lonely
    frightened
    cursed
    clever

    because I am thrilled
    full of life
    nearing death
    desperate to know
    confident in my knowledge

    because I am entangled
    and strangled
    by the why of it all

    because I can
    and so that I might

    for all of this
    I write

    and to survive
    I have no choice

    • • •

    rob kistner © 2010


    In A Heartbeat

    In response to prompt #52 at Carry On Tuesday, and prompt #115 at One Single Impression




    In A Heartbeat

    •

    the trip to visit you
    is filled with memories
    sweet anticipation
    knowing the warmth of your hello
    the strength of your handshake
    your fond embrace

    the stretch down I-5
    we’re laughing and singing
    miles zipping by
    till we spy your exit

    then west toward the coast
    a quiet buzz of excitement
    fills the car

    at last we catch sight of your vineyards
    as we crest big rock ridge

    then the left turn
    down your valley road
    so beautiful
    so familiar

    hands on the wheel
    I anticipate every bend and rise
    every dip
    exhilarating
    as I navigate the gorgeous vistas

    the sound of our tires
    as they trundle ‘cross
    the narrow wooden bridge
    that fords your stream
    boulder’d and crystal clear
    as it tumbles and falls
    brisk from mountain snow-pack

    coming round
    we see the corridor
    of faithful old-growth firs
    stepping back for us
    inviting our return

    the regal mountains reign
    high above
    granting us safe passage

    boughs bend
    branches sway
    celebrating that we are back
    when your gate comes into view
    swung open in welcome

    it’s left up your gravel drive
    the pebble and crushed rock
    crunch and clatter in stony rustle
    as we traverse your hill
    to see you and Michelle
    cuddled on your porch swing
    your family pouring down the steps
    into the yard
    beaming bright eyed
    arms open for embrace

    six hours and 300 miles
    separate us
    but the journey always goes by
    in a heartbeat

    the road to a friend’s house is never long

    • • •

    rob kistner © 2010


    Boxes – Contemplation in 3 Parts

    In response to the Ist prompt on the newly opened We Write Poems, I contemplate boxes




    Boxes

    Contemplation #1

    •

    my memories gather and squabble
    like crows in fallow fields
    they pick clean
    the bones of my recall

    bones against the cruel clay
    of an arid barren mind

    bones spilled from soul boxes
    in which I’d desperately collected
    the scarred and damaged pieces
    of my broken dreams

    dreams now parched and withered
    dried brittle in the coarse winds
    of my dire confusion

    their promises scratched and raspy
    slowly slipping unintelligible
    into the chaos and cacophony
    of the crows in fallow fields

    • • •



    Contemplation #2

    •

    tanka

    wonder’s trapped within
    a box within more boxes
    so deeply buried
    by the years of failed dreams
    you must not lose your wonder

    • • •



    Contemplation #3

    •

    tanka

    love is sealed within
    a box locked inside your heart
    lost in the rubble
    of years of broken promise
    you can find it if you look

    • • •



    rob kistner © 2010

    Stowaway

    In response to the 2nd prompt on the newly re-opened Writer’s Island, I step from my place of hiding




    Stowaway

    •

    slowly
    with great caution
    in halting measured step
    I creep from sanctuary dark
    to leave this place of safety

    to sidle in uncertainty
    into the chafing
    cutting light

    head bowed
    spirit crushed
    tensed for flight

    emerging
    visible again
    though barely

    poised to recoil
    from any sudden emotion

    long now in hiding
    stowed away in sorrow
    fragile as a newborn bird
    unsteady as a fawn
    just as frightened
    as unsure

    my wounded soul
    took refuge in aloneness
    dug in
    resolved to disappear
    become invisible
    perhaps to die
    the weight of life too great

    simple breaths
    a considered labor
    but still I drew them
    hesitantly

    long I lay
    shallow breathing
    unwashed
    unfed

    resigned to simply vanish
    from this hopeless realm

    despaired I would never find
    a reason to go on

    yet slowly I emerge

    but please
    no impulsive expectations

    permit me slow and careful evolution
    from my chrysalis of anguish

    let me find my way
    back into the light
    from my place of hiding

    offer only patience
    and safe distance

    • • •

    rob kistner © 2010


    Mind’s Eye

    …response to prompt #13 from Magpie Tales




    Mind’s Eye

    •

    I sit
    with my mind’s eye
    I watch the flow of people

    the shuffle of feet
    with their different sounds
    according to their shoes

    I see wan faces of unsmiling lips
    their void curves denounce this night

    yet unseen
    is the gossamer curtain’s fall
    that defines their soul’s duality

    the divergent reality
    through which truth stumbles blind
    to move in the world rough as a rope
    taut as every promise made
    frayed as wisdom
    leaned in whispered from behind

    grab at time like dropped money

    I might learn something tonight
    if someone will release the light
    so I can shine like a child
    who likes ice cream most of all

    this child reads old mens’ minds
    and notices the shoes
    the belts all made of leather

    I feel a shiver of sad imbalance
    a confliction in my soul

    so I will watch the shoes
    and practice non-attachment
    because I can

    but pieces of me
    stick to whoever gets too close

    you may have seen me
    silhouetted against the sky
    the coldest night in January
    howling with the frozen moon

    then moon and I
    sneak through fate’s construct
    among cages of studs & trusses we run

    from room to imaginary room
    the whole world close enough to touch

    we eat a midnight lunch of damaged bread
    seasoned by caution and foreign lands
    with onion’d thoughts layered deep

    show mercy
    peel back the layers
    peel me away thin by thin
    skin by skin
    to my quivering soul

    I hope I am not ugly in your sight

    these thoughts become too heavy to hold
    to tough to chew or swallow
    my thoughts
    bone-white lies of morality plays
    open for you to peek

    hope they are not ugly in your sight
    hope they do not make you weep
    as you peel back all the layers

    onion’d thought layers
    held fast and firm
    like a carapace
    to which I’m stitched and welded
    and can no more leave than you can truly enter

    they tie me down sometimes
    but sometimes barely so

    inescapable optimism in my bare-bones grin
    flashes in the brittle moonlight

    a stranger comes to where I sit
    to see
    his stare blinds the stars from my eyes

    behind his fey smile
    his radar dreams scan the forgotten creases
    the clandestine getaways in my mind

    standing over
    he peers down with probing gaze

    one of us
    will learn a thing or two this night

    • • •

    rob kistner © 2010

    ____________________________________________
    …an edited re-write of an earlier draft…

    Hands of Neptune

    …response to prompt #12 from Magpie Tales

    ____________________________________

     

    Hands of Neptune

    •

    like the disembodied
    hands of Neptune
    reaching from a rocky confine

    breaking surface
    into the watery realm

    seeking
    grasping
    needing

    but entombed
    in a glassened globe
    a crystal cage

    cruelly shut away
    from that which is most desired

    contact
    connection

    prisoner
    in brutal isolation
    banished
    even from the lesser gods

    condemned eternally
    to never know
    the redemption of touch

    • • •

    rob kistner © 2010

    Sad Little Clown

    …presented as a second gracious salute to the first prompt from Big Tent Poetry

    ____________________________________

     

    Sad Little Clown

    •

    I am the sad little clown
    with the frowning face
    the round red nose
    and the great big tear

    this meek facade
    and silly sham
    belie the horror
    that I engineer

    life’s dealt me cold
    my hand is slack
    not a queen
    no king nor ace

    the violence
    that dwells within
    is masked behind
    my woeful face

    no one suspects
    the evil soul
    that festers deep
    in this funny fool

    they know not
    the monster in me
    the gentle sheen
    conceals the cruel

    they don’t realize
    a broken heart
    a ruined life
    makes one quite mad

    they simply see
    the pitiful
    and painted face
    that looks so sad

    the shaggy coat
    the baggy pants
    the red suspenders
    the big white glove

    they do not know
    it hides the hand
    that choked the life
    and killed their love

    town after town
    state after state
    bodies mount
    in the circus’ wake

    in the dead of night
    at the dark of moon
    in frenzied fever
    each life I take

    each beautiful
    each innocent
    each unaware
    that they would die

    there will be more
    on the road ahead
    one for every tear
    you made me cry

    when the circus comes
    and the tents go up
    the people cheer
    in each sleepy town

    ‘cause in their ignorance
    what they don’t know
    who’s really come
    is the killer clown

    • • •

    rob kistner © 2010

    ____________________________________

    photo from: Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus